


To Come This Far

by wordswordswords7



Category: Schitt's Creek
Genre: Angst, Baseball, But he doesn't mean to be, David Rose Deserves Nice Things, David Rose stands up for himself, Homophobia, Homophobic Language, Implied/Referenced Homophobia, M/M, Patrick Brewer is clueless, Patrick Brewer loves David Rose, Post-Episode: s05e09 The MVP
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-11-06
Updated: 2020-11-06
Packaged: 2021-03-08 23:14:46
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,754
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27414820
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/wordswordswords7/pseuds/wordswordswords7
Summary: After the baseball game, David confronts Patrick about guilting him into playing. And in getting his point across, has to confront a part of his childhood he'd rather leave in the past.Takes place after the post-baseball game barbecue.
Relationships: Patrick Brewer/David Rose
Comments: 4
Kudos: 177





	To Come This Far

**Author's Note:**

> Patrick and David may be my all time favourite on-screen couple, and Patrick may be one of my favourite characters, but that doesn't mean he's not without his faults (which is just a sign of a well developed character). I always found the baseball episode shows the less idyllic side of his personality. 
> 
> So I thought it might be interesting to explore David's story after the fact, and give him a chance to set Patrick straight.
> 
> Content warning: I use the f-word slur here in reference to a past experience.

Patrick looks a little surprised when David says he’s going back to the motel after the game. Maybe he figures David just wants to wash the dirt away and change into one of the many outfits not currently living in Patrick’s limited closet space. Or maybe he’s noticed that after the thrill of the win has worn off, David is unusually quiet and withdrawn. Maybe Patrick even feels it when David shrugs away the ice pack in his hand and announces he’s tired and going to head home.

Maybe, but David doesn’t really care.

Because he had _said_ he didn’t want to play and Patrick had _promised_ he wouldn’t need to participate. And that is not how things worked out.

David enters his and Alexis’ room, grateful to find it empty. He softly closes the door and tilts his head, waiting. From beyond the shared wall, his parents’ room is also silent and he lets out a long slow breath of relief. He doesn’t think he has the emotional fortitude it would take to listen to his mother’s laundry list of Cabaret-related vexations at the moment.

The first thing he does is make a beeline for the bathroom (pausing only long enough to grab a change of clothes) and shuts the door firmly behind him. Twisting the little lock feels like a useless gesture—he’s sure one stiff breeze could remove this door from its hinges—but it’s one more barrier between him and that fucking baseball game. 

That fucking baseball game that he had not wanted to play in.

“ _Fuck_.”

He wants the act of stripping the uniform from his sweaty skin to feel cathartic but instead, it only makes him nauseous. For a minute all he can do is stand there, staring at the offensive pile of green and white laying crumpled in a heap on the floor. It’s a far cry from the meticulously folded pile of clothing taking up the left side of the counter. 

He will not be touching this uniform again. 

Dragging his eyes away from it, David turns on the shower and lets the water get almost unbearably hot before stepping into the tub. He’ll gladly use up all the hot water in the county if it means permanently washing the dirt, grime, and sweat from his skin. The spot on his back where the ball had struck aches dully and the thought of it just makes him scrub harder until he feels raw.

When he’s done, he looks at the outfit he’d haphazardly grabbed on his way through the room. He hadn’t really been paying attention to what he’d picked up at the time, but the clothes are the first thing to bring even a hint of a smile to David’s face. It’s strangely satisfying to know that even when his brain is being fueled by blind anger and half-restrained panic, it has the sense to grab the right pieces of armour. He pulls on the black skinny jeans, and over them the skirt. He buttons up the white collared shirt and tucks it in, then over that goes the floral sweater. The one that Stevie had once shrewdly likened to a botanical Rorschach test during one of their many THC-enhanced tête-à-têtes. 

He smooths his hands over the ensemble as he looks himself over in the mirror. If he were able to produce a haughty glare, he might feel almost normal. But he can’t, and the person in the mirror staring back at him just looks drawn and brittle.

Still, it’s a million years away from the version of David who would unwillingly pull on a baseball uniform, and that has to count for something.

When he finally leaves the bathroom, it’s still to be greeted with silence. David is grateful for the absence of Alexis, who would have made him expose the wound he has spent the whole afternoon hiding. She had been too young at the time to remember any of it now of course, but she would have gotten the truth out of him. Then she would have gotten quiet and... _empathetic_. Which would be unbearable.

Squaring his shoulders, David casts his eyes around the room, trying to remember where he’d stashed _it_. His dark eyes land on the cedar chest. Of course. Beneath the scrupulously folded knits, he finds the stack of assorted little notebooks that are held together by a rubber band. He plucks at it absently, thinking, and then separates the most tattered and oldest notebook from the rest. He doesn’t need to check if it’s the right one. He knows it is. He returns the others to the chest and refolds a few of the sweaters that he places back on top. 

Just then, his phone buzzes and he accepts the distraction of the text message.

PB: _Are you feeling ok?_

The answer is no, but David is feeling roughed up and very resentful, so when he replies he lets Patrick’s question go unanswered.

DR: _Are you home?_

PB: _Yeah the bbq wasn’t worth staying for without you there._

David clenches the fingers of his free hand, feeling his anger waver but he’s intent on holding onto it.

DR: _We need to talk. Store in 30._

He pockets the phone and doesn’t pull it out again to read the reply Patrick sends. Part of him baulks at the idea that he could be risking everything if this turns into a fight. But this feels like a little piece of personal growth—that David isn’t just pushing his own feelings away to try and preserve the relationship. That he’s acknowledging his own unhappiness and is prepared to demand change. 

David _deserves_ to confront Patrick about this. And he trusts, or maybe just hopes, that their relationship will still be intact after he unleashes this anger. He’s never been _mad_ at Patrick before, not really. He had felt heartbreak and a sense of betrayal over the Rachel situation, and he’s been _annoyed_ plenty of times, but this is different. This is a slow-burning flint crackling in his gut that has slowly been turning into a raging forest fire. He’s fucking furious now.

David tucks the little notebook into his pocket and leaves the motel, letting that fire carry him swiftly into town. He’s given himself plenty of time to get there before Patrick, in order to centre himself so that he can build up the nerve to confront the contents of the notebook. But when he unlocks the door and enters Rose Apothecary, David is annoyed to see Patrick emerge from the backroom, face full of worry and uncertainty.

Clenching his jaw he swiftly relocks the door so that they aren’t interrupted by townies who can’t read the store hours sign.

“David, is everything okay?” Patrick asks, smiling tentatively. “You’ve got me worried here.”

“Yeah, no. No, things are not... _okay_.”

And Patrick seems to understand that immediately, even if he’s not sure why—seems to know this has to do with something _he’s_ done. When David walks past him and makes a point of not touching, Patrick has the sense to quietly follow him to the back room, away from the store windows that anyone might look into.

“Sit,” David archly gestures to the sofa and Patrick obeys without a word. 

David needs to be on higher ground for his conversation. He needs to be able to pace and gesticulate in order to burn the anxiety and anger away, in order to be _rational_ , and he can’t do that if he’s sitting next to Patrick’s warm and comforting arms.

David pulls the notebook out of his pocket and tosses it somewhat carelessly onto the seat beside Patrick.

“There’s a photo,” he says and the tone already sounds accusatory to his ears. He takes a deep breath and tries to say the next words with more control. “In the back cover, there’s a photo.”

“David, I’m not sure–”

“Look at it. Just–” he clears his throat, uneasy. “Just look at it.”

And Patrick, completely unsure of what is happening, flips the notebook over in his hand and opens it to the back page. He takes the photo out and stares at it, unsure of what he’s looking at. David, refusing to catch even a glimpse of the faded image, focuses on his boyfriend’s face and can chart the emotions flickering across it like a modern-day Magellan. He sees the moment Patrick recognizes a young David in amongst the crowd of boys, all wearing identical Little League uniforms. He sees the look of Patrick’s soft joy at the sight of little David _participating_. And then he sees the smile slip into a frown when Patrick notices the look on ten-year-old David’s face.

It’s not too different from the look on David’s face now. Only now there are no bruises.

“You really didn’t like Little League, huh?”

It’s a gross understatement.

“Mhmm, yeah you could say that.” 

Patrick seems to sense there is something bigger coming.

“I don’t _like_ baseball, Patrick,” he finally bites out. “You know this. I _know_ you know because I told you months ago when you dragged me to that sports bar in Elmdale. I’ve said it literally every time I’ve opted to spend whole evenings with my _mother_ while you watch it on TV. And I told you this very morning when I said I didn’t want to play in your stupid game!”

“David–”

“No!” He crosses his arms over his chest protectively and takes a step back to create a little more distance between them. “I don’t care if _you_ like it. That’s _fine_. Watch as much as you like, play as much as you like. But when I said no, _you didn’t listen_. And worse, when my dad mentioned I played as a kid, you still guilted me into playing! What part of “holds the record for most times hit by the ball” was lost on you?”

Patrick looks a little shamefaced, but David can tell he’s not really getting it. The look he gives him almost feels patronizing. Patrick has given him this look before, usually over small things that David knows deep down aren’t a big deal.

“I’m sorry I guilted you into playing,” he says contritely, leaning forward. “I guess I just got carried away. But David, don’t you think you’re overreacting about all this? So you didn’t love playing as a kid. You played really well today, you should be proud.”

David looks at the ceiling and balls his fists under his chin before giving his head a little shake.

“Oh my god, I shouldn’t have to explain this,” he says it more to himself than to Patrick, but then drops his hands and looks the other man in the eye. “What do you see in this photo?”

Patrick quirks a pale brow. “Um, a young David Rose not loving that his dad forced him to participate in team sports?”

God, wouldn’t it be lovely if that was all? But David knows this picture intimately, even if he hasn’t set eyes on it in years.

The David in this photo is stuck within a cruel piece of time. He will never know more than the oppressive humidity of the summer day, or the uncomfortable way his uniform itches against his skin. He is caught in a moment of misery that he will never break free from—one accentuated by the swaggering churlishness of the grinning boys beside him, one of them pinching David in the back out of view of the camera. If the photo could speak, this version of David would be uncharacteristically quiet. And anyway, it would be impossible to hear him over the snide whispers of _gay-boy_ and _fag_ coming from the rest of his teammates. The David in this photo has no way of knowing that years from now, other versions of himself will be transfixed into happier scenes full of nothing but contentment and love. No, this David can’t see into the future, but he can feel the recent past. The yellowish bruising on his chin and the painful scab up above it are stuck with him in this moment too. As is the knowledge that wearing a helmet won’t stop the force of an intentionally aimed baseball from splitting a lip.

“No Patrick. That’s a photo of a little boy who was brutalized at every practice and every game because the cretins on his team thought he was a little fa–” he can’t say it out loud. “. _..hmm_ , because they thought he was a _little too gay_. That’s a kid who could only depend on the coach to turn a blind eye and chalk it all up to him not being a _team player._ A coach who thought it was funny to commemorate his torment by making it a League record to break. A kid whose father—the guy who forced him into it in the first place—never showed up to any of his games, and then made him stay on the team for two more years. Two years spent fending off prepubescent bigots and being physically _assaulted_ under the pretence that _David just can’t catch a ball_.”

There it is. The sinking realization and immense guilt. Part of David wants to kiss the look right off Patrick's face, but he hastily swipes a knuckle under each of his own eyes instead, refusing to cry over these childhood memories—again.

“David, I didn’t know. I’m so sorry.”

Patrick stands up and closes the space between them, and David lets himself be pulled into a hug but doesn’t return it.

“You never said, or I would never have pushed–”

David rolls his eyes and refuses to sink into Patrick’s embrace. “That’s not a story I owe anyone. Not even you.”

“No, of course not. I just meant…”

“No,” he steps back, not out of Patrick’s arms completely, but far enough back that he’s forced to look up at him. “If I tell you I don’t like something—if I actively choose to, like... _not_ engage with it—you need to respect that whether you have all the details or not.”

Patrick looks stricken, and David knows that it pains him to consider how much hurt he’s caused. And now that’s he’s said his piece and Patrick gets it—really gets it—he allows himself to relax a little into his arms. Patrick responds immediately by tightening his grip and gently kissing the crook of David’s neck.

“You’re right, of course, you’re right. I’m so sorry David, I’m so, _so_ sorry.”

* * *

Later that night, while they lay in bed on the brink of sleep, Patrick quietly says his name. David—who’s head is using his chest a pillow—relishes in the gentle rumble as he speaks.

“Hmm?”

The hurt of the day feels less now that they're curled up together half-asleep, but David feels exhausted for all the emotional effort it has cost him to get here. He’s about to drift off when Patrick finally speaks.

“Can I ask you something?” Patrick’s voice is a whisper, thick with sleep. “You don’t need to answer if you don’t want to.”

“Ask me.”

“Why do you keep that photo if it’s such a painful memory for you?”

David watches as the headlights of a passing car slowly casts beams of light across the dark apartment walls. He thinks about the faded photograph tucked away inside the little notebook, next to pages and pages of 13-year-old David’s dream outfit ideas and confessions of crushes on boys and girls at his middle school. The first notebook he had poured his uncertain truth into. 

“After all... _that_...I decided that whatever those assholes saw in me as a weakness, I was going to own it. I was never going to let it be used against me ever again.” Patrick squeezes his hand and presses a kiss into his hair. “The photo reminds me of how far I’ve come.”

David’s eyes slide over to the nightstand where Patrick keeps a framed picture of the two of them. It’s a candid shot that Alexis captured of David sitting on the counter at the store while Patrick stands within the V of his legs, kissing the space just above his eyebrow. David is laughing at something. 

He wishes 10-year-old David could hear the joke and feel that laughter too. Shit, he wishes the David from two years ago could.

“I love you,” he whispers into the dark.

“I love you too, David. More than anything.”

  
  



End file.
